by Bridie Clark
“You’re not planning to propose tonight?” she asked.
“El, lovebug, we’ve talked about this,” he said. He shut the car door so Raoul, staring straight ahead in the driver’s seat, wouldn’t hear.
“So you’re not.”
“I thought you’d be excited! C’mon, sweetie, I’ll give you the tour, you’ll love it—”
“There is no chance I’m stepping on that boat.” Eloise felt seconds away from a Krakatoa-style eruption. “You need to tell me right now, Trip, right now—are we getting married or not?”
Trip stared at her. “You’re not serious. You can’t expect me to respond to an ultimatum like that, to agree to change my entire life—you know how I feel about marriage.”
“Does it matter how I feel?” Eloise demanded. The crux of their problem, she suddenly realized, was Trip’s unwillingness to put her needs ahead of his own. “What kind of sicko plans this whole blindfold thing”—she threw the Hermès scarf on the ground. He tried to put his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugged them off violently—“and doesn’t propose?” She was going to puke.
“Don’t do this, El. We just moved in together—”
Her anger left her winded; she struggled to catch her breath. “Don’t you dare act like I’m rushing you!” Eloise opened the car door and threw herself in. “Raoul, please take me home.” But she could see the driver pause, not wanting to piss off his boss. It’s always about Trip. Trip’s program, Trip’s feelings, Trip’s decisions. She got out of the car. It was hard to control her body, but she did, running as fast as she could in four-inch stilettos.
“Eloise, please wait!” Trip dashed after her, grabbed her arm, and forced her to teeter.
“Don’t speak to me unless you’re ready to propose!” she shouted at him.
She was that girl. He’d turned her into that girl.
She kept on running, running, running. Past the crowds perusing the fruit stands outside Fairway, past the sidewalk where John Lennon was shot, past the evening joggers in Central Park to Fifth Avenue. One of her feet was bleeding, the other felt raw with blisters, but she didn’t care. The sun was gone by the time she reached her own block. Eloise was too devastated to cry.
“Hello, Justine. This is Alison Pearce, Parker Lewis’s new secretary. Mr. Lewis asked me to call you for a copy of his most recent summary of assets. We didn’t receive one last month. Maybe because of Mr. Lewis’s recent move? I know everything’s been a little chaotic. Uh-huh. Uh-huh, perfect. Could you fax it to two-one-two, five-five-five, nine-eight-two-zero? Thanks, Justine. I’ll let you know when it’s come through.”
No sooner had Fernanda hung up the phone than she heard the squeak of the front door hinge and the sound of Parker dropping his keys on the console table.
“Parker, is that you?” she called, running a hand through her freshly blown-out hair and trying to calm herself. He could have easily caught her mid-snoop; she was getting sloppy. “In the bedroom, sweetheart!”
“Hey, hon. This is a nice surprise.” Parker, wearing a pin-striped bespoke suit and a robin’s egg blue tie she had picked out for him at Bergdorf, looked a bit weary as he crossed the room to kiss her hello. “Dinner’s at eight, right?”
“Yes, but I told Nelson and Ava that we’d swing by their place at seven for a quick drink. Is that okay, darling? Didn’t your assistant mention it?”
Parker glanced at the clock. It was already six thirty-seven. “Maybe she did. It’s been such a crazy day, Fern. Have you seen the news? The financial markets are taking a historic beating—”
Fernanda uncrossed her legs and stood up from the bed. “Poor puppy,” she said, smooching his neck. She hated when he got all doomy-and-gloomy about the economy. “A nice night out with friends will cheer you up.”
Parker looked unconvinced. “Where are we going?”
“Bouley. Ava made the reservation.”
“Fine, but if Nelson Miller orders the eighty-eight Château Haut-Brion like he did last time, he’s paying for it. After a day like the one I just had, it will not cheer me up to drop a thousand bucks on dinner.”
Fernanda, horrified, stopped inspecting herself in the mirror and whipped around to face her boyfriend. “Parker! Say you’re joking. You would never—”
Parker looked at her blankly. “I’ll get changed fast, and then we can go.”
“Okay!” she called after his retreating back. She pushed out of her mind the specter of an embarrassing moment with the dinner check. Parker would never be that gauche. “I laid out some clothes for you. Figured you’d want to change out of the suit you’ve been wearing all day.”
Parker popped his head out of the walk-in closet. “I’m a fifty-two-year-old man, darling. I’ve been capable of dressing myself for a few years now.” He said it lightly, but she could tell she’d overstepped.
“Just trying to help!” she called, hiding the hurt in her voice. Parker really was in a black mood today. You’d think he’d show some gratitude for the effort she’d put into eradicating his ex-wife’s tackola influence on his wardrobe—he had more Gucci loafers than you’d find in Cipriani on a Saturday night.
“I know you are, sweetie.” Parker, now in his boxers, sat down on the chaise in the corner and patted the spot next to him. Fernanda perched beside him, careful not to wrinkle her sapphire-toned Michael Kors frock. “You know what it is? I just need more downtime. It seems like we’re always running somewhere. I need a night or two each week where it’s just you and me, some takeout, in our PJs by eight.” He smiled, and Fernanda smiled back—although she felt more like crying. PJs by eight? The mere mention of downtime was such a downer.
Ever since Cornelia had planted the nasty little bug in her head, Fernanda had been obsessed with sleuthing out the truth about Parker’s financial solvency. She’d started with his BlackBerry and e-mail account, logging in whenever she had the chance (his password had been easy enough to guess: Fursnickety, that nasty little vermin his wife had understandably left behind). Other than the pang of guilt she’d felt after reading an e-mail to his college buddy in which Parker had gushed about how happy Fernanda made him, she hadn’t gotten much out of her efforts. Then last Friday she’d overheard him wrapping up a call with someone named Justine. When she teasingly asked about the other woman, he’d revealed that she was his private banker at JP Morgan—and so, of course, Fernanda had seized the first opportunity to scroll down in his BlackBerry call log and take down Justine’s information for herself. She’d phoned from his apartment so that her number wouldn’t pop up on Justine’s caller ID. It was risky, but Justine didn’t seem to suspect anything.
Was it wrong? A gross violation of his privacy? Clearly, yes and yes. But she was her mother’s daughter, after all, bred to care about money first and foremost.
“Are you okay, babe?” he asked, touching her cheek. He turned on the lamp next to the chair, warming the room in a soft yellow light. “I’m not saying I don’t want us to have a social life. Just more balance. Like maybe this weekend, you and I could go away to my cabin in the Adirondacks and just—”
“This weekend?” Fernanda nearly hyperventilated at the thought. “That’s impossible, this Saturday is the Fashion Forum Ball! I’ve had my dress for four months! Cornelia’s one of the Ball chairs and she’ll kill me if I’m not—”
“Okay, okay,” he said, taken aback by her impassioned response. Fernanda thought she heard him sigh. “Another weekend, then. No big deal.”
As he stepped into the closet to dress, she dashed off to the fax machine, where Justine’s report was waiting.
28
The countdown is on, fellow fash-addicts! Tonight is the glitziest, most exciting party of the year, the nexus of East Coast aristocracy and old Hollywood glamour, of dazzling haute couture and American heritage, of five-star fame and fifth-generation power. It’s the Fashion Forum Ball, and we’ll be on the red carpet to give you your fix.
—www.fash-addict.com
Now do you
remember why eating is kind of important?” Lucy clucked, circling Eloise with her pincushion.
With a sigh, Eloise hitched up her flax-colored strapless dress—ingeniously decorated with pheasant feathers and antique beading and right on the money for the Ball’s celebration of fauna in fashion. The dress had been designed by Lucy, Eloise’s designer of choice these days, and stitched with the expert help of Lucy’s former Nola Sinclair colleague Doreen—but it was now dangerously loose on Eloise’s diminished frame. Since the breakup with Trip, her appetite had collapsed and she’d been subsisting on the three C’s: coffee, champers, cigarettes. “Just don’t let me dance. This dress will be down around my waist by the first chorus. No offense to your pinning job, of course.” Eloise lifted her arm so that Lucy could get in a bit closer.
The two friends, at Wyatt’s insistence, were getting ready in a lavishly appointed suite at the Carlyle. It was an extravagance, but it was the only surefire way to avoid wrinklage; the museum was just three blocks away from the hotel. Since two that afternoon, Eloise and Lucy had been ensconced with an entourage of hair and makeup gurus. Eloise had to admit that the suite—with its framed architectural renderings by Piranesi and its sweeping view of Central Park—was a refreshing change of venue, considering she hadn’t been out of the apartment or her sweatpants since Trip broke her heart.
Feeling a familiar lump in her throat, Eloise reached for her pack of cigarettes. “What if he shows up with a date? I mean, it’s possible—”
“He’s not showing up with a date, El. I called Margaux’s office myself. Trip RSVP’d solo. Double- and triple-confirmed.”
“Fine, what if he goes home with someone?”
“I will personally kick his ass down all fifty front steps of the museum. But he won’t. This is Trip we’re talking about. He might be an idiot, but he’s not a bad guy.”
Eloise let out a deep exhale, but wasn’t reassured. She wondered if she’d ever stop feeling queasy. “I’m sorry, you must be so sick of listening to me.”
“I’m not. You’re being incredibly strong.” Lucy smiled kindly at Eloise, dodging the small cloud of smoke she’d just exhaled and putting the final pin in her bodice. “There. You look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she answered. She just hoped Trip would think so. “So do you, Luce, really.” She just knew that Lucy’s diaphanous cream-colored gown, hand-pinked at the edges, would steal the show. The soft layers of chiffon made it look like she was walking through clouds, while the bodice was molded perfectly to Lucy’s svelte silhouette. The dress reflected a vision and attention to detail one might expect from a Paris couturier, not a girl from the Midwest. Lucy looked like the modern embodiment of the Roman wilderness goddess Fauna, from the warm olive undertones of her skin to the delicate gold Manolos that laced up her legs.
“Can I admit something?” Lucy walked to the window and looked out at the sun melting over the trees of Central Park. “I know I should be nervous about the auction, the press reaction to my gown, meeting Margaux Irving for the first time—and trust me, I am.” She shivered at the thought. “I really am. But my mind keeps racing with . . . I don’t know, other thoughts. I’m just not sure what will happen after tonight with me and Wyatt.”
As distracted as Eloise had been with her own crisis, she wasn’t blind to the growing chemistry between her friend and Wyatt. “Listen, four months ago, Wyatt was pretty much a nightmare, in terms of women. Selfish, shallow, elusive—”
“Obsessed with his place in the world. Yeah, I know—”
“But he’s changed a lot. Frankly, more than I thought Wyatt would ever be capable of changing.” So unlike Trip. Eloise poured herself another glass of Veuve Clicquot, hoping it might inspire a more festive mood, or at least steady her nerves.
“He’s still Wyatt, though.” Lucy waved her hand, reaching her limit with a topic that clearly made her uncomfortable. “Anyway, I shouldn’t be thinking about this stuff. I should focus on getting through tonight.”
“Me, too.” Eloise smiled wanly and gulped down her champagne, feeling it burn her throat just a little. If only the bubbles could eat away the ache that seemed to permeate her entire body. Then maybe she could smile and giggle and pretend to have a merry old time at the Ball. “I just can’t believe he hasn’t called. Eight years of talking all day long and then radio silence.”
“I still wish you’d come with us,” Lucy said, watching her with concern.
She knew Lucy meant well, but the last thing Eloise needed was to show up as their third wheel. “Max will be a great escort. We’ve got the whole unlucky in love thing in common, you know?”
“Max and I are just friends, Eloise. We don’t have that kind of chemistry. He hasn’t called me in weeks.”
Eloise took this in. “I admit I don’t hate the idea of Trip seeing me walk in on the arm of one of the best-looking guys in New York. And Max is a total sweetheart.”
“That’s the spirit.” Lucy lifted her glass. “To Trip Peters eating his heart out.”
“I mean, everyone complains about divorce settlements and the tanking economy. I just assumed Parker’s complaints were, you know, the universal kind.” Fernanda looked at her reflection in the mirror, weighing whether to wear her grandmother’s pearl necklace with the diamond and ruby clasp, or something younger, more modern. She decided on the pearls. “But it turns out he really is as broke as Cornelia said, or nearly.”
“I can’t believe Binkie didn’t tell me this before you got so involved!” Her mother was outraged, just as Fernanda knew she’d be. “Binkie’s known him through the opera for years. She must have known his wife took everything.” Absentmindedly, Martha smoothed Fernanda’s beautiful mane of hair with her hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m terribly sorry.”
Sorry for what, exactly, Martha didn’t specify—but her expectation that Fernanda would end things with Parker and try her luck elsewhere was tacit. Fernanda frowned. Funny how just last week she was raving on and on about how she’s never seen me happier, more relaxed, more in love.
“Don’t think about it now. Just have a wonderful time tonight and we’ll figure out what to do in the morning.” Martha paused, tapping a finger to her lips with a fresh thought. “Incidentally, I hear Morgan Ware’s marriage is a little wobbly these days. Maybe he’ll be at the Ball?”
“You’re not bailing.” Wyatt was holding firm on this one. The final night of their experiment, the big test—Trip had to be there, no matter how stinking a mess he’d made of his life. Wyatt needed a wingman. As it was, he was so nervous his skin actually itched. He’d been dressed for the Ball for over an hour, and though he looked highly presentable in his Turnbull & Asser tails, his dark hair slicked back in the same debonair fashion his grandfather had worn in the ’20s and his father had worn in the ’60s, Wyatt had never felt less sure of his footing.
“But it’s Eloise’s terrain, not mine. All her froufrou fashion friends will be there, whispering in her ear that she’s better off without me.” Trip stared at his reflection in the mirror, disheartened. He pulled dolefully at the undone white bow tie around his neck. He’d been struggling with the thing for twenty minutes. “Thirty-six years old and I still need help getting dressed.”
“They’ll whisper that whether you’re there or not.” Wyatt was sick of hearing Trip whine about his self-created predicament. Although in the past he’d felt vaguely impressed by Trip’s marriage aversion, now—thanks in part to Lucy’s insights on the subject—he was starting to view it as selfish and immature. “Eloise is a one in a million girl and you’ve been stringing her along for years. I say this as someone who cares about your happiness: get over yourself and make a commitment.”
“Dude, you think you’re in a position to lecture about doing the right thing?”
Trip was right, much as Wyatt hated to admit it. Wyatt directed his pacing toward the antique demilune on which several crystal decanters were displayed, and poured himself a fresh scotch. He hadn’t slept all week
. He’d thought seriously about backing out of his book contract with Kipling—he thought about it day and night, in fact. But the publisher was practically giddy with enthusiasm, calling every day to check on his progress. If he bailed now, that door would be closed to him forever. Still, how could he root for Lucy’s success tonight, knowing that the higher she climbed the farther she’d have to fall?
“My God, will you stop that?” Trip snapped. “You’re driving me insane.”
“Stop what?”
“The pacing! You haven’t stopped moving since I got here! I know you’re nervous, but it’s annoying as hell!”
“It’s my goddamn study, and I’ll—” Wyatt’s eighth-grade response was interrupted by the ringing phone. He picked up.
